Thy Adam
by Shuck
Summary: Love and loss can drive a man to madness; memories can only sustain delusion for so long. Jin/Hwoarang.


**Thy Adam**

"_I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel"_ – **Frankenstein's Monster**

He can see him trembling in the dim light of the lab, bent over and looking even more frail than usual. Whether it was from fear or anger Jin cannot say though he doesn't care either way. He keeps his gaze fixed to Bosconovitch's, who stares, dumbfounded, back up at him and waits for the elderly scientist to settle before he speaks.

"You have no choice in this matter; you would do best to comply."

"Jin please, you cannot possibly be this cruel. Please…"

"I have given you my proposition. If you ever want to have Alisa returned to you, you would do well to follow my instruction."

"This is utter madness. It is one thing to construct one but quite another to-"

"Enough!"

He slams the metallic surface of a nearby lab bench with his palm. In the quiet the clash of skin against metal rings and reverberates in the air, makes Bosconovich shrink and cower before Jin. There is a light in Jin's eyes that defies reason; that is less than safe.

"It won't be hard for you. You have everything you need to do it. I'll keep my word regarding your daughter so long as you do this. I will not take no for an answer and if that _is_ your answer, it'll be her that pays for it."

"Please…"

His voice trembles, frail and terrified. Jin thinks perhaps he has gone mad, scaring an old man is something so beneath him, but he has no choice. He has no _choice_.

"Don't hurt her. Please don't hurt her…"

"Then do it."

Jin doesn't have a choice.

When his prey succumbs Jin does not know whether he feels relief or sickness. In the darkness of the empty lab, Jin fingers the documentation on the table, slides it across a little closer to the terrorised hump that is Bosconovitch and simply turns and walks away.

* * *

He sits alone in the expanse of his throne room, as he often does.

There is never enough light to see by and he can tell this irritates Nina but Jin sees clearly; he is not thankful for why he can.

"He's nearly completed the project, sir."

Nina knows. Outside of him and the Doctor, she is the only one; Jin wonders what she thinks of it.

"Good. Is there an ETA on when he will be done?"

"In about two weeks, sir."

Jin feels a familiar pang in his stomach. A lurch like excitement and revulsion overwhelms him for a moment, rendering him unable to speak. If Nina notices she does not say and takes his silence as a cue to leave. Her footsteps thunder in his ears against the pounding of his blood and once again, as he has done so many times in the last several months, Jin considers that he may very well be insane.

* * *

She sits pale and concerned, her eyes like warm chocolate and hair silk liquorice.

"Jin, you aren't feeling well are you?"

He glances up from his meal. Xiaoyu is glowing against the dim firelight of the dining room from where she sits at the far end of the table, but he can see her worry, her sadness. She looks lovely in that dress she is wearing; Jin swallows.

"Please Jin, I know what you're trying to accomplish but this isn't right what you're doing. It's getting to you!"

He almost laughs; she doesn't know what's bothering him, _she doesn't know_. He wonders what she will think if she finds out? His meal is no longer appetizing.

"I'm fine Xiaoyu, I am just tired."

"It's…_him_, isn't it?"

The knife and fork in his hands slip and clatter against the porcelain. It makes his ears scream, makes him tremble where he sits and Xiaoyu realises that she should not have said it.

"Don't. Don't talk about that."

He sounds violent, spits the words like some frothing, rabid beast and Xiaoyu visibly jumps, her little cry hurts Jin's ears. The Chinese fighter only composes herself the next moment, her look wary, sad and confused; Jin stares at the mangled rib-eye on his plate.

"I'm sorry Xiaoyu, but please don't mention…"

"I'm sorry Jin," she stands up; Jin can see her shaking and wonders if she wants to cry, "But please, you can't bottle this up any more."

"Leave it," he hisses. His eyes flash dangerously across the table, stilling Xiaoyu and any protest she may have offered, "I'm not talking about it."

She visibly struggles, stares across as Jin with a pained, conflicted expression. Eventually, she speaks.

"May I be excused? I'm not hungry anymore."

He feels bad for hurting her, for shutting her out. But she won't understand. She won't agree with what he's done, with what he needs to do. No one could. No one could know. He watches her form melt into the shadows that lurk beyond the fire and lets out his breath.

Just a few more days…

* * *

Bosconovitch sits with his head in his hands, slouched over his made-up desk as if he is an elderly Atlas with a great weight on his shoulders, pressing him down into the cold steel of its surface. Jin does not care for the old man's moral dilemma however; not when the job is completed and the results wait for his inspection.

He realises he is trembling. He caresses the teal glass of the capsule, desperate to catch a glimpse of its contents. He turns to the elderly scientist, his voice trembling but hard.

"Open it."

Bosconovitch's shoulders slump. He gives Jin one long, desperate look before he indicates to the switch at the side of the capsule; clearly he can't bring himself to open it for the Japanese man.

Jin holds his breath. This is it, this is the moment he has waited for after months of restless anxiety and desperation. Again the fleeting question of his sanity crosses his mind but the button clicks and the thick, opaque plastic hisses as it starts to pull back and Jin can only stare down in wonder as it confesses his secret shame.

It almost steals his breath to look at that face again after so long.

"I've tested him thoroughly. He is simply on recharge at the moment. From the data you've given me, he should match your specifications exactly. Personality, quirks, likes, dislikes. He can be…retuned later if needs be."

"Leave, please."

Bosconovitch's weary expression lifts just a moment to one of confusion, "Sir…"

"I said leave!"

He just stares down at that sleeping face, oblivious to Bosconovitch's slow, shuffling exit. When he is finally alone, Jin slumps. His legs almost give away underneath him. The feeling is too overwhelming. If he does not get himself under control, _it _could come out, but that face is too pure, too beautiful for Jin to do anything but fall before it.

It takes just a moment before there is a flicker at the eyes. They open quickly, too quick for human eyes to do under normal circumstance and it's as if Jin is staring down into a living memory.

Brows furrow, eyes narrow. He frowns and looks to Jin, recognises the black-haired male and his voice strikes Jin's heart like an arrow through his chest.

"Kazama?"

It takes Jin a moment to absorb it. The voice is perfect, the eyes are perfect, everything is so perfect. This must be a dream; this can't possibly be anything but a painfully sick dream.

"Hwoarang."

* * *

For all intents and purposes he is exactly the same. He seems confused, as if struggling to process the things that Jin tells him but this Hwoarang is exactly as Jin remembers him to be.

Give or take a few deliberate overlooks, Hwoarang accepts the story that Jin tells him.

"It wasn't easy to make you better; you may struggle to understand or remember certain things, but trust me Hwoarang. This is where you belong."

Hwoarang nods. He's a little quieter than the real one, seemingly more contemplative of things, but Jin sees it only as a minor oversight.

The redhead sits on the edge of the capsule in nothing but white linen underwear, looking out at nothing. Jin observes him, watches the perfect contours of his muscles and the delicate ruffles of his hair and feels guilty.

He can't tell this Hwoarang the truth. That no, they were _not_ so seriously involved before Hwoarang was victim to an attack meant for Jin, that Hwoarang called Jin's home his own, that he had forsaken his old home when his Master threw him out for choosing Jin over him.

It was all lies: a carefully woven net of deceit that makes Jin sick to think about.

But he needed this, he _needed_ this.

"So what now? Now that I'm fine again?"

"Now? Now you just stay close. I need to stress that no one knows about this, Hwoarang. You'll need to stay here where I can see you. I can't risk you leaving my side in case anything happens to you again."

Hwoarang looks up at him. For a moment his eyes are glass and Jin can almost imagine the cogs turning behind them and is taken by despair as this imitation takes its time to process the why's of Jin's statement.

"Ok."

* * *

He can't tell if he is truly happy or not. He goes about his affairs and war with a pomp and flourish that boarders on barbarism. He eats, sleeps and plays with something akin to ecstasy. But sleep makes him anxious and those glass eyes reveal that beneath the surface of his finely crafted illusion, Jin is not well.

Hwoarang is Hwoarang as far as anyone could possibly tell. He is cautious of Jin because he does not remember him well, or anything well for that matter. It makes Jin nervous because sometimes he imagines that Hwoarang will figure it out, will discover that something is wrong with the web Jin has spun. But he remembers that Hwoarang does not have this capacity because this Hwoarang has known nothing else, not truly.

Hwoarang speaks the way he would, sniggers, laughs, grumbles and complains as he would, fusses over his hair as he would, practices patterns as he would. Only one thing is lacking in his appearance and Jin quietly stands at the doorway of Hwoarang's room, one tentative gift clutched between tight hands as Hwoarang tries on that outfit Jin remembers him best in.

"You aren't wearing your goggles."

"Goggles?"

He's playing with the zip of his imitation leather top, looks at Jin for a moment.

"Yes. You always wore these perched on your head," Jin extends his hand, holding up a favoured pair of goggles; "I kept these for you, after the…accident."

Hwoarang stares at them for a moment before taking them, twisting them in his hands to look at them.

"I don't remember these."

Of course he didn't. Jin closes his eyes. The goggles were the exact same pair Hwoarang would always wear. Jin had been underhanded in acquiring them, but like this, he felt he needed it at the time.

"Well, that's ok. Why don't you try them on?"

Hwoarang slips them around his neck, pulls his hair away as he slides them atop his forehead, adjusts them in front of the mirror. It's like a hidden reflex that Hwoarang knows how to do without thought. His hair sits perfectly combed back, held in place exactly as he always preferred it; Jin swallows when he turns to face him and marvels at the vision.

"This looks kinda stupid."

That wasn't what Jin had expected to hear. Was it some kind of bug?

"But you…always wore these."

"Yeah well, I don't think I will anymore."

Jin almost chokes when Hwoarang tugs them off, shakes his hair and fixes it back in place in its natural, loose fashion; he doesn't notice Jin staring at him with a bereft, almost pleading want in his eyes.

"What? Are you upset I don't want them anymore?"

"Well it's…your choice, but I always thought they suited you so well."

Hwoarang shrugs; "Don't care to be honest."

He was a little too like the Hwoarang Jin remembers, and a little less than he remembers too. He only just manages to catch the goggles as Hwoarang chucks them back at him, finds that his hands are trembling.

"That's…ok then, Hwoarang."

* * *

He's wary of being touched. Perhaps Jin had foolish thoughts of thinking he'd want to be touched the way he used to want. Hwoarang was always so forward, had encouraged Jin to be a bit more spontaneous, but at every touch to his hand or attempt to flick hair from his eyes, Hwoarang pushes him away.

"This is weird for me Jin. I can't exactly remember having any kinda feelings for you, you know?"

And Jin would always feel even lonelier as he stared back into those hard, distrusting eyes.

"I'm all for trying I mean…I know we were…"

Jin swallows; Hwoarang only knows because he had it coded in specifically, "That's ok, Hwoarang."

He's only been programmed to act like the Hwoarang that Jin remembers, so of course he doesn't get lonely. Hwoarang also does not find being alone in Jin's home strange, or the lack of other persons present. Except for Nina, who took Hwoarang's presence with little else but an unfeeling glance, Hwoarang sees no one but Jin and he is seemingly content with it.

* * *

Often Hwoarang would talk about the outside world. Why was Jin fighting this war? What was going on out there? Where were all those people that Hwoarang sometimes had flickers of recollection about? Jin would always answer the same: that the war was necessary, that outside was too dangerous, that all of those people were enemies to them now and would harm him like they had done.

Sometimes Hwoarang asked about his accident, the one that caused him to become the way he was now. Jin could not bear to tell him that no part of him was flesh and blood and always said the same thing: explosives as Jin travelled with him in tow, that he was the only survivor apart from Jin. He could barely convince Hwoarang that he had managed to get away unscathed when he asked to see the scars.

Jin's lies only continued to run deeper and darker, become more twisted as despair-filled days crept by. Hwoarang was little else than a beautiful, painful distraction. A Band-Aid over a dark, yearning emptiness that occupied Jin's every waking moment and plagued his dreams.

He would almost cry out as Hwoarang unfolded like some tentative flower to their illusionary bond of the past. Sometimes Hwoarang would smile at him and it would be warm. Sometimes he would let Jin touch his hand and once, just once, he shut down against Jin's shoulder: a perfect visage of sleep without breath; it was only those moments that gave Jin any solace in his actions, in his despair.

* * *

It was almost like losing him all over again.

It was a fixable mistake, nothing but a simple accident. But Jin feels as if he can't breathe, as if he can barely contain his panic. Hwoarang isn't in pain; in fact he is perfectly calm, his brows knitted in annoyance. All he'd been doing was a routine practice of his patterns, had somehow placed a foot wrong and…

"This can be fixed, you've snapped it in half but it can be fixed."

The technician leaning over Hwoarang's mangled shin is the first person the redhead has seen in the months he has been under Jin's care. Jin stands to the side, suppressing his trembling, tries not to look at the broken metal, torn latex and split wires that replace blood and sinew in Hwoarang's left leg.

The Korean just stares at his injury with a fixed, searching expression, as if he can't comprehend the reality of his innards. The technician helps him to his feet with little protest which surprises Jin. But Jin can't stand it, he can't stand seeing the scientist touch him.

Hwoarang does not protest when Jin embraces him and helps him along to the underground laboratory, back to the place of his 'birth.'

"You made me so worried Hwoarang I…please be more careful."

"What's wrong with you Kazama? It doesn't hurt."

"I know Hwoarang I know but for a moment I…I thought that I had…"

They are alone. Hwoarang is staring at his newly repaired leg with no expression, his fingers tracing the new skin. Jin barely manages to still the shudders in his chest.

"…I thought I would lose you again."

"You're scared? Is that it?"

He feels foolish, sick, embarrassed. This was no way for him to behave. Hwoarang looks at him with hard eyes, eyes without tenderness and he caves, rubs his face in his hands.

"You know Kazama, you never did tell me what part of me is metal and which isn't…" it's a low, suspicious tone but somehow, the need for an answer is delayed because Hwoarang's brows rise in confusion when he realises that Jin is crying.

There is no twisted stirring in his gut this time and Jin thinks his inner demon is laughing at him then, but he can't control it. He remembers Hwoarang as a pale and still image that burns his heart to ashes and the water in his eyes makes it damp; he can smell the dregs of fire and he almost wants to die.

Hwoarang is quiet as he lets Jin cry.

* * *

The changes are gradual, tentative, nervous. Hwoarang is a little softer, a little more trusting. He smiles more, he laughs more, and Jin finds that when Hwoarang is happy, he feels happy too.

In these moments, Jin can completely forget what a farce it all is.

He doesn't flinch or pull away when Jin touches him, in fact, he initiates it now.

"Are you sure you're ok with this?"

It almost makes him want to weep when that programmed playfulness finally reveals itself and Hwoarang butts Jin's ear with his forehead, laces his arms around his neck.

"I trust you, Kazama."

Even though his skin is on fire and his need turns his stomach to a raging ocean, Jin wants to pull away because the guilt is too much. When he shudders and suppresses a sob, Hwoarang only takes it as an invitation and when he kisses him, Jin goes blind.

He does not breathe and he does not sweat and they are the only reminders of something less than life, but for everything it's like it used to be in those moments of the past when they came together and melted into one, frantic blend of passion and Jin is warped between elation and misery.

* * *

She shows up unannounced; Jin realises it was only a matter of time.

The guards are a little unassuming because they recognise her. It's been months since her last visit, since another attempt to reach out to her longtime friend. Jin almost stops breathing when he finds her sitting in his living room, looking older and wearier than she did before.

"Jin."

"Xiaoyu what are you doing here?"

"They let me in, they know I'm your ward."

"I know that but…why? What for? I thought you'd have given up by now."

Her eyes narrow, "I will never give up on you Jin, never."

He panics. He can't have her knowing. But before Jin can speak or make any action to rid himself of the Chinese fighter, he hears his voice.

Xiaoyu only looks to Jin for a moment; confused, frightened, disbelieving. When her eyes fall on Hwoarang, she looks ready to vomit.

"Jin I wanna watch that dumb movie you mentioned where is…"

When he sees her, he takes a moment to recognise her.

"You're…Xiaoyu aren't you?"

She doesn't need an explanation; Jin can tell she knows.

"Jin…what is this?"

"Hey I'm not a what I'm a who. Don't you remember me?"

"Hwoarang please, I need you to leave right now."

He looks to Jin, looks to Xiaoyu. Jin looks livid and pale, sickly and dangerous. Xiaoyu looks as if she is looking at a ghost.

"But why? What's she doing here?"

"Hwoarang! I won't tell you again, leave!"

He looks defiant, as if ready to challenge Jin's authority as he would. But somehow Hwoarang's shoulders slump and he concedes.

"Fine."

"I don't understand…Jin what have you…"

He sinks before Xiaoyu as Hwoarang turns, as he leaves and heads back up the stairwell. It's only when he is gone that Jin looks to Xiaoyu without words.

"You have to understand Xiaoyu, it had to be done."

"What do you mean _done_, Jin? What needed to be _done?_ Wasn't what you _done_ before enough? Do you have to mock him and yourself like this? I know what…_that_ was Jin. I knew that you couldn't-"

She can't speak anymore because suddenly, she starts to sob. She shudders and folds and struggles against Jin as he tries to console her, slaps him away to brush the tears like glittering lemonade away from her pale cheeks.

"You need help Jin. Oh my God you need help. Please…"

"This is all I need Xiao you don't understand…"

The tiny woman manages to get to her feet but the tears don't stop. They are a river down her face, on the front of her dress, on Jin's hands as woe overwhelms her. Jin barely manages to hold onto her, but there is strength in her he hasn't known before when she slaps him away and stumbles to the door.

"Xiao please. Please you need to listen to me-"

The slam of the wide, front door hurts his ears. Jin stands frozen, pale and shaken at where his longtime friend once stood and feels his world crack, feels something trickle from the gash that is black and painful and desolate.

When he manages to pull his eyes away from the door, Jin finds Hwoarang standing at the sofa where he had been just moments ago. The look on his face is hard and desperate, wanting to know what was wrong. Why had he terrified Xiaoyu so much? His eyes seem to say it. Jin's lips quiver to form words and when they don't come, Hwoarang turns to leave.

"I didn't feel like watching that movie anyway."

* * *

He is no longer playful.

When Hwoarang was not questioning Jin on just why Xiaoyu was so upset at the sight of him, he was brooding as far away as possible from him. More than once Jin has guiltily thought of having some of his programming changed to make him less suspicious, but this was all so underhanded already. He wasn't trying to take advantage of Hwoarang, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to placate the redhead.

"She was scared of me Jin. Why? From what I remember, me and her were pretty good pals."

"You were, yes," Jin doesn't look at him, "But after this well…she's against me, though she still cares. It is difficult enough for her to approach me, let alone you. She did not know about you being here either."

Hwoarang is slouched back in an armchair. Jin is at his desk, watching the Korean intently, unable to stop the memories coming back. He is sitting as Hwoarang would, fist to his cheek, head tilted, expression serious and stony. His body is sprawled and open, dominating the air of the room; Jin rubs his eyes with shaky fingers.

"Kazama, if you're not telling me the truth, why?"

"There is nothing to tell."

"I don't buy it. You won't tell me anything about my 'accident'. You don't tell me what's real in me and what isn't. You keep me locked up in here and tell me everyone hates me like I'm some kinda monster. Xiao is terrified of me but I can't even think why? Did you do something to me? Did you fuck up my memory so you could keep me here like your little pet? I can't even remember how _we_ were together, how do I know you're not some fuckin' pervert?!"

"Hwoarang please. No, no you are not a monster and no; no I'm not taking advantage of you please…"

A monster. It was oddly fitting though Hwoarang was anything but. Of course only Jin did not see it that way. Perhaps _he_ was the monster, like some living Victor Frankenstein driven by madness to do the unspeakable; he wants to laugh hysterically at the thought.

"What the hells so funny? What the fuck is wrong with you, Kazama?"

Hwoarang is standing, staring at Jin with angry, accusing eyes. Jin is practically slumped over his desk, staring up at Hwoarang like a starving dog before some tender bone. Hwoarang simply glares down, his eyes are glass in the dim silver moonlight that fills the dark cavern of Jin's office and he looks almost sinister.

"I want out, Jin. I don't know what you're planning but I want nothing to do with it anymore," he sounds dangerous, "Something…something tells me I'm not supposed to be here. I want freedom Jin. I want answers."

He isn't the cool and composed Jin that he once was and he realises just then that he hasn't been in a long time. But he claws for some shred of dignity, of some return to his previous self and manages to straighten, cough and keep his face calm.

"Hwoarang, this is all for your own good," he is sterner sounding than he means to be, "If you go out there, they will tear you to pieces."

"They can try! Did you forget who I am? Where I came from? I grew up on the streets, Jin. Even if I don't remember it, I know that much."

He hadn't expected the programming to run so _deep_; Jin almost wants to smack Bosconovitch for doing _too_ good of a job on him.

"Hwoarang, there is war out there-"

"That _you_ started! And all your sanctimonious bullshit about resetting the world doesn't fuckin' cut it. I don't care and I never did! I want my freedom, Jin. I'm not your fucking pet!"

He's shouting, slamming the table. His eyes are on fire and his humanity is so real and strong that Jin forgets himself. He reaches for Hwoarang and is stunned when the redhead lets him grasp the front of his shirt, lets him press his lips to his in a hard, desperate kiss.

When he pulls away, Hwoarang's face is a mixture of conflict and curses.

"I hate you, Jin."

"You don't mean that."

Hwoarang doesn't respond but the look in his eyes is every bit as twisted with confusion as Jin's insides are. He opens his mouth, closes it, then violently shoves the raven-haired fighter away from him.

"Get fucked, Kazama."

He storms out, no doubt to lurk somewhere in the depths of the mansion, alone. Jin sinks into his seat and is overwhelmed once more with loss.

* * *

Hwoarang is completely alien to him now. As much as Jin tries to approach him, Hwoarang will not have Jin near him. He shouts, smashes priceless pieces of art, calls him names. Several times Hwoarang has broken windows, kicked down doors and Jin has had no choice but to have the mansion occupied at all times.

He considers calling Bosconovitch back. His daughter is free technically, but still under Jin's charge as the elderly scientist is well aware, so he will of course comply. But Jin does not want to alter Hwoarang. He knows this is the real thing, that the real Hwoarang is a free spirit who cannot be confined and who is he, to take that from him?

When he has taken everything else, Jin simply cannot bring himself to do it.

In fits of loneliness and despair, Jin feels the threads of his mind pull apart and fray. They crumble and snap as the months creep by and the world grows darker. Xiaoyu no longer visits; Jin does not stay in the mansion as much because Hwoarang no longer wants him. Nina's presence is no comfort, nor are the lavish dinner parties and negotiations Jin reluctantly must attend for work and play, any suitable distraction.

He is more alone and lovesick than he ever was before.

* * *

He's never seen this man before, but he is familiar somehow.

Jin only wonders for a moment how he managed to pass the guards. He stands tall and confident in the middle of the entrance hallway. In the dim light his features are sharp, eyes bright, a scar at his brow. He holds himself with an assurance that makes Jin think he is a soldier.

"And…you are?"

Nina stands a little away to Jin's side, eyeing the stranger dangerously. He turns, nods and smiles in a charming, charismatic way.

"Lars Alexandersson. I'm something of an estranged relative of yours."

Jin's brow furrows; though somehow looking at him, he can believe the statement.

"I wanted to meet you in person. I've come on behalf of…well, the world."

He fans his arms in an open, friendly gesture; his tone is light and genial but Jin folds his arms.

"Listen Alexandersson, whether you are a relative of mine or not I really do not care. I don't care to know how you managed to bypass my guards or just why you would consider turning up to be the most effective means of swaying my opinion, but it will not work. Leave."

The man called Lars shrugs, a small, confident smile plays at his lips, "I knew you would be difficult. But I sincerely hoped we would not have to come to blows. Believe me Jin; I intend to stop you, to put whatever scheme you have to an end."

Jin only smiles and tilts his head, "You are welcome to try. But I doubt you have much to resist me with."

Lars does not reply, but studies the younger male with a calm, calculating eye. His look cements Jin's notion that he is a solider and he is about to speak, to deride his pathetic attempt at diplomacy and insist that he leaves when he notices that Lars is no longer looking at him.

When his expression becomes a curious gaze over his shoulder, Jin's blood runs cold. When he turns his head, Hwoarang is there at the doorway leading into the living room, glaring between Jin and Lars with scorn and mild curiosity.

"Who's that, Kazama?"

"Hwoarang, leave. This isn't any of your business."

He isn't looking at Hwoarang; rather he is looking at Lars, whose expression is one of cool amusement.

"Hwoarang? I think I recognise that name from somewhere…"

Lars is teasing, stroking his chin in a mockery of thought, eyeing Jin carefully, "This is very…interesting."

"Leave. Right now!" Jin is becoming irate; his eyes flash.

"What's interesting? Who the hell are you?" Hwoarang is in the hallway, glaring Lars down as if desperate for a fight.

"Hwoarang I will not tell you again! Leave!"

Panic makes him crazy. He snarls the words, his eyes turn and Hwoarang can only step back when Jin spins to him with such urgency that it takes him by surprise. Lars simply observes, tightens and is no longer mocking, ready to leap.

Jin doesn't say anything but his look is enough. He sees a flicker of something like fear in Hwoarang's eyes and all at once Jin is reminded of fire and broken metal. Of blood and screams that hurt his ears. He sinks and is only thankful that Hwoarang backs away.

"You're crazy, you are fucking _crazy_…"

"Interesting…" Lars is soft and contemplative, his eyes narrow, lips a tight line, "Clearly you are feeling a little…unwell. Perhaps we'll talk again in the near future."

"There will be no next time, Alexandersson," Jin is straight again, composed and cool and sure again, "I will not hesitate to have you removed immediately if you show up here again."

Lars shrugs, "Farewell then, Jin. Farewell_, Hwoarang_."

He doesn't like that tone Lars uses.

He makes his exit and Jin can only stare, barely capable of holding his guise. He can hear laughter in his ears, hears Hwoarang curse behind him and when Nina takes Jin's silence as a means to excuse herself, he is left completely alone.

He wanes, sinks and shudders alone on the marble floor of the hallway.

* * *

He has lost all grip on him and he can only succumb.

Jin sweats despite the cold air, watches Hwoarang stand on the veranda, staring out at the expanse of the front garden. The wind flicks his hair in delicate waves. It bites Jin's skin but Hwoarang cannot feel the cold; he stares at the sky with a mixture of thought and apprehension.

"Is this some kind of game to you, Jin? You think letting me out to play here will keep me from leaving?"

"Hwoarang, you don't understand, you have to believe me."

"Then tell me the truth, Jin! If you love me so much, tell me the goddamned truth. Who was that guy? Why did he seem to know me?"

"I don't know who he is, I don't know how he knows you either," he draws back to the doorway away from the bitter bite of the cold; Hwoarang's eyes are icier than the air, "But he does not mean well. That's all I know for sure."

The redhead tuts, "Sure Kazama, like I believe that."

He goes back to looking at the sky, as grey as if the very colour had been sucked from it. The clouds are heavy overhead, threatening rain. The flowers are pale, the foliage so dark it's almost black, "I'm just your little pet. If this is what love is then…then I want nothing to do with it. I don't wanna love you anymore."

There was always a small semblance of restraint that Jin holds onto. Sometimes it was harder than other times, though with Hwoarang it was always a difficult task. But now, hearing those words, Jin crumbles behind him and Hwoarang does not care.

"Just let me leave, Kazama…"

* * *

He sees his Adam at the foot of his bed. Outside the thunderstorm drowns all sound and in the flash of thunder, Hwoarang's face is livid.

"You fucking-"

He's never sounded angrier, keener to violence. Jin is not groggy with sleep anymore. He is out of his bed, standing to the side in the dark and staring at Hwoarang whose eyes are too bright in the dark, his face a twisted snarl.

"I did a little digging down below, Kazama; looked through all your secrets in that lab of yours. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't tear you apart right now."

"Hwoarang…please listen to me-"

"Are you sick in the head? Do you think just because I'm a machine I can't understand this!?"

He's shouting, smacking his thigh with a fist. If it were possible for him to spit, Hwoarang would be foaming at the mouth.

"You are a fucking monster, Kazama. How the fuck could you do this? Is it some kinda game to you? You think my life is something to fuck with and mock by making…making _me_!?"

"Hwoarang I couldn't…I couldn't bare living without you-"

"That's why you killed me is it!? That's why you fucking _tore me apart_ on the side of a road and left me to die in a hospital bed? That's why Xiaoyu was scared of me wasn't it? That's why that Lars guy recognised me no? Because the real me is dead and I'm just the goddamned replacement!"

His Adam becomes the fallen angel. He feels Hwoarang's fist at his face and it doesn't feel like flesh and bone anymore. It doesn't feel like warmth, it doesn't feel real.

Hwoarang is a mess above him, the pain at Jin's cheek is barely registered, neither are the sore spots elsewhere that litter his body through a thin nightshirt. He can barely restrain his creation; can barely subdue him with that power that tore their world asunder and took Hwoarang from him completely.

He sees the offence in this imitation Hwoarang's eyes: a perfect reflection of true ire. Jin nearly vomits, is barely able to hold him down, fumbling desperately at the back of his neck, anxious to shut him down. What has he done? What had he done?

Why could he not do it? Why could he not let Hwoarang's bones lie? Could not let his grave rot away in peace? Why was he so possessed with such heartless, desperate, maddening love that he had to mock his very memory with an amalgamation of bolts and cogs?

This mournful machine cries Jin's name one last time: a desperate, pleading wail that has too much hurt in it for it to not be real and then there is peace as he shuts down, eyes closing, slumps to the floor.

Jin lies shuddering on top of him; his face is no longer twisted, but peaceful as if sleeping. When Jin stares into that face, when he can't feel the quiet breathing of life, he thinks of Hwoarang's face in death. He imagines the stitched-up scars and the white pallor that he remembers from the final time he saw him and begins to cry.

* * *

He can't tell if Xiaoyu's look is one of disgust or pity. She makes one more tentative visit, at his request this time, because he feels he owes her an explanation. Knows she will listen. She sits in his living room with an old newspaper in her hand, staring down at the headline in Kanji. Jin closes his eyes as he reads the words: Popular Iron Fist fighter dies in hospital.

"I don't know why you did it, Jin."

Jin doesn't respond. She does not sound angry or confused, just empty, a little nervous. He watches the Chinese fighter stare sadly down at the article, at the picture of Hwoarang's face. He's glaring at the camera, his eyes are bright even in the grain of the paper, his hair held back by his favoured white sweatband; it seems so long ago now that Jin can barely remember it.

"…I loved him, Xiaoyu. He loved me too."

She nods but then she shakes her head, "When you love someone you let them go, Jin," she whispers it, runs her finger over Hwoarang's cheek in the photograph, "Please tell me that you'll get rid of that copy. It _hurts_ Jin. It hurts me more than you realise."

"I…I don't know how I can live without him. How can I live with this guilt…"

"It wasn't your fault Jin. You weren't to know what Devil wanted to do."

"I could have stopped it if I had have only been stronger."

"Jin no, please no…" she struggles to hold back tears, "Jin you loved him and he loved you. In his own special, lug-headed way I know he did. I know he would understand. Maybe he'd be angry if he was still alive, maybe he'd never want to see you again but it wasn't _you_ Jin. It wasn't _you_."

"I loved him so much I _killed_ him. What a mistake," Jin sinks, holds his head in his hand and almost laughs, "I tried so hard to never let anyone in. But there he was as large as life and I fell for him. Like some stupid, selfish child I let him fall for me too and look what happened…just look what I've done…"

"It's done, Jin. Maybe no one will forgive you, maybe you can never forgive yourself but please…let go Jin. Please get rid of that machine. Please let him go."

"I just wanted to hear his voice again. I wanted him to call me names like he always did."

She can't stop the tears. The newspaper slips from her hand and she starts to sob in her hands. Jin is empty, stares down at the crumpled image of Hwoarang on the floor.

"He always used to say, 'How could I love a guy like you, Kazama?' And I'd always smile and say it was nothing but his own poor taste. He'd always laugh then. Maybe he'd tug my hair or shove my arm. Sometimes he'd kiss me. He always has this look when he did it, like he wasn't sure. Then one day he said something different. He said, 'How can you love a guy like me, Kazama?' and I…I could never answer him."

He sinks to the sofa beside Xiaoyu, picks up the newspaper, "How could he love a monster like me. He was scared of me, in some way, when he found out. But he…he stuck around and I let him. I've never felt the things he made me feel before, I was scared. I didn't want to lose that, I wanted it back so I thought…I thought that I could…"

"Could pretend to live some fantasy where everything was fine and Hwoarang was alive again. To forget your guilt," Xiaoyu is not completely composed, but her voice is strong enough to speak. Jin nods.

"I'm weak Xiaoyu. All I really am is weak. I lost my mother, I lost my home. I was stabbed in the back, left for dead and stuck with this infernal curse in my blood. I had you but it is not the same thing. He was always there, he always would be. I may at my centre be truly alone, but at least I could see his smile or hear his voice and have that one happiness."

"You can have it again Jin, you really can-"

"I _killed him_, Xiaoyu. I tore him apart on the side of a road and left him to die in a hospital bed. I broke his Master's heart, I caused you and everyone else he considered a friend immense pain. _I broke his trust_. He did not trust easily and somehow, he gave it to me. He gave me his small, fragile confidence and put it in my hands and I-I crushed it."

She's never seen Jin cry before. She wonders how often he has cried since it happened. For a moment, she considers reaching out to him, to touch him and hold him and tell him it's alright but she doesn't. She understands there is no fix, no solution.

No matter how desperately Jin wishes to put things right, she knows he'll never be able to.

"I'm so sorry, Hwoarang…"

He just cries and Xiaoyu lets him.

* * *

This will be the first and last time he visits this place, he decides.

The air is bitter. Overhead the sky is as grey as it was the day Hwoarang told him that he wanted to be free. Jin thinks that finally, he has granted him that wish.

The grave is nondescript; nothing but a name and dates because Baek could afford little else after the hospital bills. That fact makes Jin awash once more with anguish. He settles on his knees in the cold, damp grass, caresses the headstone tenderly as if it were fragile glass.

"I hope you'll forgive me one day, Hwoarang because I really, truly needed you. Really, truly loved you."

The marble is cool against his forehead; the trees rustle with a low, mournful hiss, "If you never do, I understand."

He closes his eyes. Pictures Hwoarang's face. Jin can't remember his smile all that well, can't remember his laugh. All he can remember is the anger in his substitute's eyes: the hate and livid desperation. That replacement will never think or feel again; just like the original, just as it should be.

"I don't think I can ever really let you go Hwoarang, though I know I have to. I hope you're happy with that at least. I hope you are satisfied with your place in my heart and mind if nothing else."

There is no response but the hiss of trees, of wind in his ears and the sombre silence of death.

Jin will no longer be mad. He will no longer feel or permit another to replace Hwoarang or form a bond to his heart. If loneliness is his fate, Jin will face it down with quiet, pained acceptance. He will not try for happiness; he will not let it slip into the cracks of his lonesome soul. Jin will keep the image of his fallen angel and remember what a monster he truly is.

* * *

**AN**: I'm going to hell and I'm not even sorry.


End file.
